Postcards from 1952
by Vii Zee
Summary: It's been 20 years, and yet, Brittany can't forget. She'll never forget. WARNING: Character death.


When she was alone, she'd do this. She'd riffle through her box of old possessions and just run her fingers over them and wish she could relive the memories again.

Thirty four years old and the 50s were a memory from 20 years ago. It was 1970, and she was married to a business man who was actually doing well, with two little boys growing up just fine.

And today, her husband was spending yet another late night at work and she was here, going through the box again.

And that;'s when she saw it again, looking up at her with mourning, neglected eyes. "Hello," it seemed to say, "remember me?"

It hurt her to look at it. Physically hurt. Every bone in her body suddenly remembered the person behind the words, the one who left her to be a journalist, travel the world. The one who would send her postcards when they wouldn't be able to meet up and write every ounce of feeling she could muster onto it.

She flipped the paper over, a picture of a lake replaced by the scrawly, all over the place handwriting of the one Latina who got away. She ran her finger of the date. 1952. Sixteen and in love, she had been.

"Brittany, you can't being to fathom how much you mean to me…"

"_I love you, I love you, I love you," she whispered onto her lips, taking a pause between every three words to capture her lips between her own, throwing in a confident nibble when she felt like it. Brittany grinned and cupped the back of her neck, dragging her in closer. The darker girl pushed Brittany against the mattress and placed her hands firmly on her hips, bringing her knees up to the bed and pressing against the blonde's thighs._

"_San-"_

"_Don't talk."_

"_But-"_

_She cuts her short when her lips find her pulse point and suck. Brittany gasps, twining her fingers into Santana's hair and keeping her there. She felt Santana smirk against her skin and wriggled, trying to get the girls' mouth to her own. _

"_You told me I could have my way tonight!" Santana laughed, kissing her way towards Brittany's breasts._

"_Sorry…"_

_The next day she found a postcard in her letter box addressed to her, saying that she was sorry she had to leave on that family trip to the Lake, and that she'd be back on Monday, she'd see her at school._

_And she loved her._

She grabbed another postcard, the one beneath, and ran her fingers over the words, feeling the grooves in the cardboard-like paper.

"Brittany, I miss you. I was reading some stuff with my Dad in his office, he said that he has this book about animal facts. I got it. I'll give it to you when I come back from living with him next week. It's got some awesome stuff about ducks and dolphins. And rabbits. I saw a rabbit today…"

"_Rabbits."_

"_Excuse me?"_

_Santana looked up at Brittany and cocked an eyebrow._

"_That's what the metaphor is. People who fuck like rabbits."_

_Santana laughed and lay back down, running her hand up and down Brittany's stomach. Brittany squirmed slightly and the darker girl smiled._

"_I love you."_

"_So do I," Santana replied, and Brittany heard the dependence in the girl's voice, the way her voice shook. Brittany curled her arms around the girl and held her close. Santana sniffed and Brittany realized suddenly that she was the first person Santana would ever trust completely, would ever give over to completely._

Brittany curled her legs up Indian style and stared at the rest of the postcards. She didn't want to read them all, reading them all would mean having to relive all the memories again, and it hurt too much to think about this girl again.

So she just put the box on the floor, fell backwards onto her pillow, and closed her eyes.

Sleep didn't take long to arrive.

In her dreams, everything made sense. Always. And this one was no exception.

In her dreams, she never let Santana leave without a fight, she didn't even give up. Santana stayed here and she was happy, and they were living together and everything was fine. Even though people looked down upon them but Santana told her that by the 80s gay people would be more accepted, they'd be able to live together without being ostracized and prejudiced. But they were happy nonetheless.

And in her dreams, Santana was still alive.

"_Hey, Britt, look at this."_

_She looked up from her coffee to look at her husband and smiled at him. "Yes, Mike?" He was staring at the morning news on the television, uneaten toast in front of him._

"_Why does this girl look so familiar?"_

_She looked up at the screen and gasped, catching her coffee before it slipped from her fingers. On the screen, plain as day and clear as crystal, was a picture of Santana. Granted, she was older, but she was still the same Latina from school. She had a glorious smile painting her face, and the banner beneath said a few simple words._

American Reporter found murdered after misunderstanding.

_The news reporter was speaking now, saying how Miss Santana Lopez had accidentally angered some armed forces who had seen her as a threat and beat her to an inch of her life, leaving her bleeding on the streets. She was found a few hours later, but by then she was too far gone to be able to be fixed. She had died a few hours after that._

"_Didn't she go to school with us?" Mike asked, finally taking a bite out of his now cold bread._

_Brittany could only nod._

"_Santana?"_

"_What?"_

"_I…I'm gonna miss you."_

"_So will I," she admitted, taking Brittany into a hug and resting her chin on the girl's shoulder. "You're…"_

"_Yes?"_

"_You're everything to me."_

_Brittany curled her arms around Santana's waist, and tugged slightly. Santana sighed, her breath tickling Brittany's skin. "Why can't you stay?"_

"_Because I want to do this so badly…"_

"_I understand."_

_Santana let go of the girl and cupped her cheek, smiling into those sad blue eyes. "Thank you so much."_

_When she grabbed her luggage and walked towards the terminal, Brittany knew that somehow, she would never see her again._

Mike opens the door and startles her out of her sleep. She springs up in bed and he smiles warmly at her.

"Hey."

She smiles back and he notices the box on the floor. He picks it up moves it to underneath the mattress without looking at the contents, stripping of his clothes and crawling into his favorite grey flannel shorts.

"What's up?" he asked, and she curled up to him, resting her head on his chest.

"I was just thinking about Santana…"

"Ah." Mike was cool that way. He understood without you ever having to explain, he never pushed. He was perfect as a best friend.

But as a husband…

Brittany just wished he could be someone else sometimes.

_Santana kicked at the pebble and watched it skid across the tarmac._

"_I'm bored," Brittany murmured, sipping at her water bottle. Santana shrugged._

"_You think we could find something to do on a day like this but noooooooo!" Brittany continued. Santana merely nodded. She seemed distracted, almost far off._

"_San?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_What's up?"_

"_Just thinking."_

_Summer of 1952, both of them sixteen and both of them pretty much enamored with the other._

_Both of them hiding the nature of their relationship to everyone._

_It was the 50s, not the next millennium when everything might be all roses and rainbows!_

"_What about?"_

"_I dunno. Stuff I wanna write."_

_Santana's writing interest had developed a few weeks ago, when her father refused to let her watch television and demanded she do something productive. She had grabbed a notepad, walked into her backyard and started to write. Over the next two hours she wrote twelve haikus, three poems, and one short story. Brittany had read them and was impressed, though most of the metaphors and silly technical terms went over her head. Santana was happy though, and that was the most important thing. _

"_You have a new idea?"_

"_Yep! I'm actually considering this, Britt. Journalism and all."_

"_You sure, San? Your parents won't be so happy…"_

"_Screw them!" she huffed, blowing at her fringe. She turned to look at the blonde lithe figure striding next to her and shrugged. "It's what makes me happy."_

Santana kept doing the postcard thing, but after that striking revelation, she wrote poems on the back instead of her own words. Mostly poems by famous people, things she could have picked up in books. Sometimes she wrote quotes. Sometimes she tried her hand at writing love poems. Most times, they didn't work out, but it was still sweet of her to try.

Brittany made sure Mike was long gone into dream land before she continued to drift through the box. She started to read them all carefully, taking in her words and sniffing to herself.

"My darling, my darling, my life and my bride…"

"And yet, be heaven, I think my love is rare as any she belied with false compare."

"I love you, Brittany."

"I miss you, Britt."

"I love you, Brittany. I love you so much it hurts. I need you, Brittany. I need you!'

The closer the date got, the more desperate the writing became, the harder the words were imprinted into the paper. Until finally, there was the last one…

_Brittany walked to the letter box that Monday morning and opened it, looking at the bills piled up inside. She sighed and took them out, then grabbed the little piece of paper at the back._

_After setting the bills on the coffee table, she found herself looking at the paper and staring at the writing, recognizing it though it had been two years._

"_Brittany, I'm in Singapore right now. It's wonderful here and I really hope you get to see it one day. I love it. I've been writing for the Travel section of some big New York paper for ages, it's like living the dream! Britt, I miss you. I really do. I'm running out of space. I'll send you another from London. I-"_

_The next few words were scribbled out, and Brittany sighed. She looked at the date and noticed one chilling detail._

_It was addressed the day Santana had died._

The next morning, Brittany found herself standing in her backyard, staring at the sky, and feeling the breeze gently caress her face.

The year was 1970, she was thirty four years old, she was married to a wonderful man named Mike Chang…

But the wind brushing against her skin and whispering into her ears sounded just like Santana as she said goodbye.


End file.
